Independence Day is here. So people, let’s get out our India-colored bandanas, paint our faces (and bodies) with the colors of our motherland, drink a bottle of Zinda dil Pepsi, listen to the Prime Minister’s soul-stirring call to the nation not to get down on its knees for terrorists, cheer for the “Men In Blue” against Sri Lanka ,SMS “Go India” to Bharat TV for a chance to win a year’s supply of Pizza Hut pizza, watch the DVD of “Gadar” if the cricket match gets washed out and then, no matter what happens, go and watch “Kabhi Alvida Na Kehna” in the evening (since it’s a crime to waste a holiday without Karan Johar).
I am an Indian. A real Indian. A patriotic one. I support the Indian cricket team regardless of whether Ganguly or Dravid is the captain (unlike some people who shall remain nameless). Whenever I hear “Aye mere watan ke logon” I stand up and try to hold the hand of the person next to me. Hell sometimes I get so emotional that I don’t mind if it’s a guy’s hand I am clasping. (Needless to say, a girl is always preferable simply because her soft hands remind me of my desh ki mitti dharti …the one that ugle heere moti). And I invariably have a Raymond’s “complete man” sensitive moment as tears flow down my cheeks to the tune of the song, my mind awash with the memories of all those jawans and kisans who have laid down their lives for their country. I make it a point to forward any mail I get about the achievements of India, speeches of Narayana Murthy, anecdotes of our President and 1993 Toyota Corollas on sale. And for independence day, I play only patriotic songs on my IPod—-only not Anu Malik’s “We love you Oh India, tujhe na chorenge” cause that’s so horrid I believe that the Pakistani ISI paid for it.
I have seen three kinds of people in my life.
Its an art one would think Hollywood seems to have forgotten.
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